by Chris Poirier

Faolan’s never understood things that don’t interest him. Of course he’d rather run as wolf than walk as human! That’s the real reason he sent us to be the decoys. Well, he doesn’t trust us near the mark, either. But ours is the harder task. By far. In the dark, if you stick to the shadows, it’s easy enough to be mistaken for a dog. And, when watching for a tail, nobody pays attention to dogs.

But we have to be human, and to make a good show of not being seen.

What a pain in the ass.

The bud in my ear crackles to life. It’s Tara. “Any sign of them?”

“Nothing here,” Conlan replies.

Poor guy. He’s probably shitting himself at the prospect of being “in charge”.

“Nothing here, either,” I add into my mic.

The others have gone—disappeared down streets and alleyways. Some already wolf, others wearing clothes they can ditch easily, listening for us to pick up the mark. A few of them are nearby, watching, I know. But they’re doing a damned good job at staying hidden.

Tara looks cold. Probably the metal seat in the bus shelter isn’t doing her any favours. Hopefully, nobody’s noticed she’s skipped the last two busses.

I can’t see Conlan any more—he’s well down the street.

“Wait, wait,” Conlan’s voice crackles again. “Got ‘em. Damn! Rian’s team is being really sloppy. I saw them first. What a bunch of dimwits.

“Okay, the primary is female, brunette, medium height, late 20s, wearing a leather jacket. Hair in a ponytail. Carrying a duffle bag. One guard in front. Built like a house. Packing, from the bulge in his jacket. Second guard a bit behind. Smaller, wearing glasses, grey jacket. Trying to look like he’s not with them. Can’t tell if he is carrying.”

Time to get moving. I jog across the street, entering foot traffic ahead of them. “I’m on the move,” I say as I reach up to scratch my neck. I can just make out the front guard in the plate glass window ahead. “Got him.”